"Bill!" a young woman yelled, bursting into the dark room. "Desmond, he's waking up, you have to come. Quickly!"
William did as the woman said, ordering Rebecca and Shaun to follow him with a wave of his hand. The trio ran through the compound and to the room Desmond was being held in, pushing through a crowd of assorted colours and expressions. Many assassins had relocated to the Farm when they heard of Desmond's situation, hoping to give their guidance to their wayward brother and help as much as possible.
When they finally found their way through, Desmond was already constrained by ropes to the bed. The heart monitor was beeping radically, trying to keep up with the speed of his racing heart. This time, the bartender did not thrash around, opting to scan the room with a wide-eyed stare.
Bill ran immediately ran to his son's side while Shaun and Rebecca ran to the other, helping the nurses turning off nonessential machines that would not be needed any longer.
"Dad?" came Desmond's voice, crackling from the lack of water. William took a water bottle from an offering nurse and carefully placed it against his lips, tipping it into his mouth. The young man gulped greedily at the sweet elixir, letting out a soft whine when his father was forced to take it away from him so that he would not choke.
"I'm here, Dessy," his father whispered, taking a hold of his hand. The nurses had removed most of the excess machines, leaving only the heart monitor and IV. Shaun pulled up a chair for Rebecca and stood behind it, arms crossed.
Desmond's gaze turned to Rebecca, and she swore her heart stopped in that moment. The look in his eyes was like the security tape of him, writhing in pain throughout the night, screaming to conciousness and seizing once again, the doctors and guards trying to hold him down...
"Hey there," the bartender croaked, waving his hand weakly at them. "I hope you guys haven't been falling apart without me there. I bet you were dying with impatience while I was dying."
"And, of course, he still has a sense of humor!" Shaun snorts. Rebecca turns to scold him, but stops herself at the sight of his face. A tear is welling in his eye and he bites his lips to choke down a sob.
"Dessy," Bill says softly. "Are you okay? How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine, dad," he replies. "Perfectly fine."
"Bullshit," Rebecca whispered, staring at the floor and fists gripping the knees of her pants. "You were almost dead, Desmond. You were in a coma for months, and whenever you woke up you would immediately have a seizure. You nearly clawed off your own face. Bullshit, you're not fine."
All eyes had fallen on Rebecca, everything so still that they could hear the door squeeze shut and the shuffling of feet as the crowd went back to their duties. She could feel Desmond's gaze boring into her, as if trying to will her away.
"... Really?" was all he said for a while. William began to undo his restraints, confident that his son would not lasp into another seizure. Desmond sat up against the headboard, rubbing the sore flesh of his wrists and ankles. It was as if he hadn't notice the very elephant standing in the room
"Did you guys... figure out what was wrong with me?" Desmond asked cautiously, leaning back.
He was greeted by silence as Bill shakily gave his son the paper he'd been holding the entire time: the entry from Altair's journal.
"Read it," came his father's unsteady voice. Desmond glanced at them all warily, but none would meet his eyes.
"Today, I have finally woken from my slumber," he began reading aloud. The room grew tense around him. "I have been lost for months, but a doctor was able to coax me from my dreaming. Not dreaming, that's not true. Visions. Visions of men facing fate like my own, speaking languages I could not understand. Visions of the future, I can only guess.
"I have these visions in my waking moments, kidnapping me from reality. They are so vivid, and I can't help but imagine I have begun to learn the strange languages of the men I see. 'Essio', 'Cunnor', 'Desmund'... the third is the one I see the most. He is supposedly a prophet, but of what I do not know. If I am right, these men are my descendants. I suppose I should be proud, for they are all destined for greatness, but I can only fear for their lives. They may not be as lucky as I was.
Malik has been studying my new appendages for the past week now, trying to understand where they came from. I can only guess it is the work of the Apple; no human could ever come up with something like this, much less dream of it. They give me the advantage of flight over my enemies, but I hope to never find myself in need of them."
There is the shuffling over paper as Desmond searches for the next page before continuing.
"I have locked myself in my library since Maria's death. My son is the only one able enter the room, but he has given up in his efforts to bring me back outside. I fear my end is near, so I must write quickly:
"The Apple has given me the wings of eagles, fit to my body, and it will do the same for the three men mentioned earlier in my journals. Removing the appendages by force or amputation will kill them, but they seem to have regenerative properties. If wounded, our wings have a sort of ability to shed their feathers and heal themselves. With practice, you will gain the ability of flight and become more versatile in combat.
"My only hope before I die is that my descendants may live through such agony and not waste away as I have."
Desmond looked up from the papers and whispered with horror, "I have wings?"
